


A Lack of Color

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, Angst, Birthday, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Jim's birthday and all of the pain that entails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lack of Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainjewel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainjewel/gifts).



When Jim looks at him like that, eyes electric blue in the watery sodium light of the street, fragile and stark and helplessly vulnerable, McCoy feels every angry word bubbling up inside him stutter into stillness.   
  
He can read every plea painted bold across Jim’s battered face, can decipher the shame and anger in the curve of his cheek, the pain blooming blue and purple and sickly yellow around his jaw. He doesn’t have to say anything, because Jim  _knows_ , all McCoy’s words already stuck in Jim’s throat.   
  
“Jim,” he sighs, instead. He reaches for him, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing petal-soft over the split skin, already scabbing over. “Come on, then.”  
  
He takes him home, takes him to McCoy’s dorm instead of his own, because Jim spends half his time there anyway. McCoy doesn’t have a roommate, he gets a double bed, and his own bathroom. Sometimes he wonders if Jim is waiting to be asked to move in, or if he’ll take the hint and just stay. He wants him to stay.   
  
The bathroom light is no less forgiving than the pale beige wash of lights outside the bar, and McCoy winces when he stands over him, looking down at the hectic mess of colour pounded relentlessly into Jim’s skin.   
  
“You should see the other guy,” offers Jim. His voice is scraped dry, thin and reedy and lacking every bit of its usual warmth and bold body.   
  
McCoy grunts, little pinpricks of anger bubbling up again now that he can see the extent of the bruising. “I did, I was there. Jim, I should take you to medical. This won’t heal properly.”  
  
“No,” says Jim. He drops his eyes, sheepish but firm, and the light hits him just right, his eyelashes haloed like wheat in a field, fanning over the backdrop of his eyes, corn-flower blue horizon meeting the sky. “Three strikes and I’m out, Bones.”  
  
“Dammit, Jim,” breathes McCoy. He grits his teeth. He can feel tears welling, hot against his eyelids, sharply frustrated.   
  
He can’t speak, so he just works, running the dermal regenerator over the cuts and bruises, wiping away dried blood and rubbing anti-bacterial ointment into the newly healed skin. It stands out ruddy pink, wholesome and new, like Jim is some sort of white-toothed, red-cheeked poster-boy. It makes McCoy’s gut ache with some indefinable loss, something Jim never  _even had_ , let alone could possibly lose.   
  
“There,” he says eventually, putting his kit aside and leaning back. “Best I can do.”  
  
“It’s fine, Bones,” Jim says softly. He raises his eyes for the first time in three-quarters of an hour, and McCoy reels a bit. Sometimes he looks at Jim, has to look in those eyes, and he loses whatever part of himself thinks he could ever make a difference for this kid, broken and scattered. The gap between them stretches for a moment, uncomfortably, Jim fiercely defiant, McCoy frustrated and aching, and then McCoy deliberately puts out a hand and brushes Jim’s cheek.   
  
The moment stretches further, then snaps like spun sugar, and Jim rises, moving into the circle of McCoy’s arms, just standing flush with him, so they breathe together.   
  
“Jim – ”  
  
“Don’t, Bones,” says Jim, sounding exhausted. “Just don’t. Later.”  
  
So McCoy pulls him out into the bedroom, undresses him gently and tucks him in, then crawls in after him, tugging Jim against his chest and wrapping his arms around him. Jim is wound tight, muscles hard and taut, but McCoy starts rubbing soothing circles into his back, and very slowly, Jim melts against him, letting the tension go with a small, weary little sigh.   
  
“It’s my birthday,” Jim says into the still air around them, the words wavering hesitantly, weak and embarrassed. He sounds small, young.   
  
McCoy holds him tighter. “I know, Jim.”  
  
“It’s not my fault I was born.”  
  
“I know,” McCoy murmurs again. He presses his lips to Jim’s shoulder, sealing his mouth over warm skin, then tucks his forehead against the back of Jim’s neck, closing his eyes. “I know.”


End file.
